Messengers of Hope
by Winged-Violoncelle
Summary: While the terrible war rages on in Osgiliath and Minas Tirith, there are soldiers and messengers in the mountains of the west who must fight tormenting struggles of their own.


**A/N: One-shot. Could be either book-verse or movie-verse. No canon character appearances, but I do hope you give it a chance.**

**Enjoy. Please leave a review or some constructive criticism :)!**

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**Messengers of Hope**

"My dear lad, I am under the impression that you may care for another layer."

Dinendir jilted out of his musings and looked up. It was Lhaithor, smiling in all amiability, holding out to him a wrinkled, plain grey cloak that seemed rather worn and moderately filthy, but with a thickness so substantial that it could shield even feeble children from the fierce cold of the peak of Halifirien, the tallest of beacon hills in all of Gondor. And that was exactly where Dinendir and Lhaithor were.

Dinendir, evidently, was no small child. He was a young man of twenty-seven, tall, defiant, strong as a bull at its prime. Even at the summit of Halifirien he did not need a cloak; not when Lhaithor was by his side, and especially not when Lhaithor was the one offering it, for Lhaithor was elderly. Dinendir did not know Lhaithor's age, for each time he had asked, Lhaithor had smiled and looked away. But he suspected that Lhaithor must be sixty at least, for there were many markings on his countenance that were the strokes of age, and no longer was even the smallest streak of colour – save that from accumulating dirt – found within the depths of his locks.

The old man was cheerful, however. Always cheerful, so much that Dinendir found his merriment incomprehensible. But Dinendir was fond of Lhaithor's smiles. They reminded Dinendir of his father, who lay ill in Minas Tirith, waiting day after day for his son's return. They gave Dinendir a certain warmth that could draw the sincerest beam even out of _him_, whose mind often wandered into rather gloomy territories.

"Thank you, Lhaithor, but you had best keep it. I am not cold."

Lhaithor laughed, and, ignoring Dinendir's soft protests, wrapped the cloak around him, "You must not lie to me, my child. You have been sitting in the snow for the entire morning. I am wearing my cloak, as you see, and I am certain I do not need another."

Dinendir knew better than to argue with Lhaithor when Lhaithor spoke in that light but adamant tone. Instead he gave a nod of gratitude, and pulled the cloak tighter around himself.

Lhaithor smiled and sat down beside the young man. His eyes followed the young man's gaze into the distance, behind the large wooden pyramid that should always have held their attentions. The sun was already high in the sky, for it was mid-day. The rays bounced off the snow on the rocky ground, rendering the scenery nearly blinding. But Dinendir and Lhaithor were accustomed to such lights. They were able to see past them, and discover the beauty behind them; for such sunrays also gilded the summits of many mountains in the distance, sketching arcs after arcs of golden paths amongst the puffs of clouds in the vast blue sky.

"Lhaithor."

"Yes, my lad?" Lhaithor turned at the sudden address, and saw that there was an odd light twinkling in the young man's eyes. Such a light he had often seen when the young man was brooding over heavy thoughts, but never before had the young man addressed him so, while the light was still shimmering in his irises.

Dinendir's fingers tightened around the cloak, and his gaze scattered into the distance, "How long has it been since we have last heard news from Minas Tirith?"

Lhaithor's smile faltered, but returned with swiftness. The young man, being so absorbed in thoughts, did not notice.

"A fortnight, I believe."

"A fortnight," Dinendir reiterated pensively, twisting an edge of the cloak fabric incessantly with his hands, betraying the emotional turmoil that lay beneath his calm countenance. After a long silence, after he had nearly split the fabric with his nervous fumbling, Dinendir at last heaved a low sigh, "Osgiliath. I wonder about Osgiliath."

Lhaithor shook his head, and placed a comforting hand on the young man's shoulder, "Osgiliath's fate is not in our hands. You must not be anxious. Young Captain Faramir is a capable man. He will ensure the safety of the fort, as well as the lives of all those under his command."

A strong wind enveloped the summit, ripping crystals of snow off of the ground and thrusting them toward the two men's figures. Feeling the sharp, cold sensation of the draft cutting against their faces, the men pulled up their hoods to wait for it to subside.

When the winds calmed, Dinendir stood, and began pacing about. "I should have been in my brother's place, Lhaithor. Or, better yet, I should be by his side now, defending our fort, defending our city, defending our land – Gondor. Instead I am here, miles and miles away from where I belong, watching incessantly for something that may never come. This is a great punishment indeed, Lhaithor. I would not have tried to defy the Steward's unreasonable orders, had I known the tortures I would suffer in _this_."

Lhaithor only looked at the young man in deep sympathy. He did not reply.

Dinendir continued to pace back and forth around the large wooden beacon, until, unable to bear the silence any longer, he asked, "Will we ever achieve our purpose here, Lhaithor?"

The elderly man gave a nearly indiscernible twitch, as his eyes hazed in a curious sort of emotion that Dinendir could not fathom.

"I do not know, my dear Dinendir."

"Has anyone _ever_ achieved our purpose before?"

"I do not think so, my dear Dinendir."

"Then why are we here?" Dinendir burst at last, and there were tears in his eyes. For too long he had sat on the peak of Halifirien repressing his dark thoughts, and after enduring the past fortnight without hearing news from the endangered Osgiliath, to which his dearest brother owed his service, Dinendir could no longer contain them. His pace was quickening in frustration, and his voice was desperate in agitation, and he almost screamed in his laments, and his shouts echoed in the valleys of the mountains,

"No one has used these beacons before. No one probably will be using them ever. Why do they send us to these forsaken lands, to sit atop sharp rocks and freezing snow, and to watch for years after years over some cursed wood that will never be lit? Why did I not die in my last battle? Why did they not condemn me to death for defying the Steward? Why did they have to obliterate my pride, my honour, my _everything_ – in such a way that will shame me, even as my spirit departs out of Arda in years to come? Why does it have to be this way, Lhaithor? _Why_?"

The old man gazed sadly as Dinendir stopped beside the beacon and thrust his bare fist into the wood. With a sigh he tore a piece of fabric off his cloak, and, as Dinendir withdrew his fist, stood and made his way to the young man. Dinendir did indeed pin several splinters in his flesh, and with fatherly tenderness Lhaithor removed them and wrapped fabric around the young man's bleeding hand.

"My child," when he had finished with his task, Lhaithor held Dinendir's hands in his, and spoke in the soft and soothing tone that Dinendir had always found comforting, "You must not underestimate the importance of these beacons. They are necessary precautions, and they will save lives one day – your brother's, your father's, and those of countless others. You are not an outcast. You are a soldier of Gondor, just as I am a soldier of Gondor. A soldier will heed to any orders that count to the benefit of the land, and, believe me, my child, we are charged with duties that may influence the fate of the entirety of Gondor."

There was something in Lhaithor's countenance and figure as he voiced those words. Perhaps it was the determination in his orbs. Perhaps it was the adamant tone of his voice. Or perhaps it was the way his hands trembled, in a manner of excitation and expectation. Dinendir was affected. Through the warm hands that held his, through the flushing complexion of the old man, Dinendir was induced to believe. The old man had long been his most valuable teacher, and faith, Dinendir recognized, had always been the lesson he was trying to teach through his cheerful smiles.

Suddenly the grip of Lhaithor's hands tightened, and his head snapped up. The old man's eyelids twitched, and his whole body began quivering as sweat began to fall off his bushy white brows. His lips moved, as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out. Dinendir inquired in pressing worry, but a yelp full of delight assured him that the old man was not failing in health. Lhaithor released Dinendir's left hand, and pointed, with a trembling finger, to the mountain in the east, behind Dinendir's view.

Dinendir turned.

Dinendir saw that, atop the distinctive peak of the Calenhad, amongst the blinding white lights and sunrays, an orange sparkle shone outstandingly in the sky.

Dinendir laughed loudly, even though he could not stop tears from streaking down his face.

In haste the two men began to pour oil over the pyramid of wood, and when the oil soaked, Dinendir reached for the small torch that hung above the beacon and thrust it onto the pile. He pulled Lhaithor back, and within seconds scorching flames devoured the pyramid, and the beacon of Halifirien, the west-most of the seven beacons of Gondor and the closest beacon to Rohan, was kindled.

Hope was kindled.

Dinendir and Lhaithor stood, and watched the beacon flame until it was consumed to the last bits. The flame was warm. It was so warm that they decided to remove their cloaks. It was bright, too; its glow was almost kind. The orange incandescence framed the men's faces and danced within their eyes, blending perfectly with emotions of their own that could not help but be reflected from their clear, shimmering irises.

Dinendir thought of his brother and his father.

Lhaithor thought of another man who, nearly forty years ago, had been condemned here with him; one who had been his companion for thirty-two years, one who now lay at the foot of the mountain, never having cast eyes upon a flaming beacon.

"Lhaithor."

"Yes, my lad?" There were tears at Lhaithor's eyes, too. But he wiped them away, for he was certain that the blaze from the beacon was bright enough – so bright that his friend could notice wherever he was, even if he was no longer in Arda.

Dinendir was looking west now, and, though his joy was not dimmed, there was a slight worry in his voice.

"Lhaithor, will the Rohirrim come to our aid?"

Lhaithor followed his gaze west and smiled.

"I am sure they will, my lad; I am sure they will."

For Lhaithor knew that, be it in Gondor or in Rohan, a message of hope would always be taken to the deepest core of the heart.

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**Some more A/N: Written because I believe those who watched the beacons must also be acknowledged as heroes. Letting me know some of your thoughts would be great :)!**


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